


Senseless

by Dee_Laundry



Series: My Fathers' Son [18]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-14
Updated: 2007-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A horrible attack has revealed something Wilson never wanted to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Senseless

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to [](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/), who knows why, with grateful thanks for beta and encouragement to [](http://daisyily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisyily**](http://daisyily.livejournal.com/) and [](http://perspi.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://perspi.livejournal.com/)**perspi**.

Sylvia Reder waited patiently while her four o'clock (stress and anxiety following a hate-crime assault with multiple assailants) settled himself on her couch. This was their fifth time together, and James Wilson always chose that piece of furniture over the variety of chairs available in the room. Elevating his leg probably eased his pain but more than that, she suspected, the tradition of it – reclining on the psychiatrist's couch – appealed to him.

As always, he began by talking about a variety of general topics: his son, Jack; his partner, Dr. House; physical therapy; a call from his mother. During their first appointment, this stage had lasted forty-five of their fifty minutes together. Today, after just ten minutes Dr. Wilson was able to turn his attention to the reason they were meeting.

"I know the moment they targeted us. I probably already told you that, so I guess –" He trailed off, rubbing his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Talk to me in whatever way feels right," she replied. "Don't worry about repeating yourself from prior sessions."

"I know the moment they targeted us; I remember it. House blames himself because of what he said, and maybe that was what made the guy look at us. But I'm pretty sure I was the one who sealed the deal."

"What do you mean?"

"I looked back. And smiled."

* * *

Wilson slips into his seat, relieved to be back. There'd been a line at the men's room, and then he'd endured a curious look for washing his hands afterward. He hopes the employees here, at least, find hand-washing normal, although the grease in the food could probably kill off most strains of bacteria.

House, he knows, is in heaven.

"I wonder how –"

House fixes him with a stare. "Don't fuss, Mama Hen. This is our first night alone in forever, and I refuse to let you spend it fussing."

Indignant at being portrayed yet again as the woman, Wilson bristles. "I wasn't. This being the first time Jack's spent the night over there, I simply wondered how Cuddy was doing."

"Eat." House points at Wilson's plate, which is substantially more full than House's own. "Build up your strength for the rest of the evening."

Wilson rolls his eyes but picks up his fork. The grouper here is excellent.

"Cuddy is fine; Jack is fine," House continues, sipping his beer. "I called while you were in the restroom."

Trying to keep from beaming, Wilson looks down and cuts up more of his fish. "Sap," he accuses quietly.

"I'm ignoring that." House raises his glass, and gestures for Wilson to do the same. "A toast!"

A man walking by their table startles at the volume of House's voice, and Wilson has to hold back a laugh.

"OK, I'll bite," he says, holding up his beer. "For what?"

House lowers his voice to a more moderate level. "The anniversary of our first kiss."

Confused, Wilson raises his eyebrows. "But that's a few more months away."

"I didn't say it was an _annual_ anniversary. It's the four year, nine month, and twenty day anniversary."

"Ah. I think macrame is the traditional gift for that one," Wilson says. He notices that behind House, the man who had startled is now standing up from a kneeling position. Probably was tying a shoe.

"No, you're thinking of the eleven year, three month, seventeen day anniversary. The four year, nine month, twenty day is fried foods." House's smile is genuine and gorgeous.

"Perfect." As Wilson polishes off his beer, he happens to lock eyes with the stranger. All is right with the world, and Wilson smiles broadly, sharing his happiness.

The man ducks his head and takes off.

* * *

"I didn't think anything of it," Dr. Wilson said. "Spending so much time around House, I'd learned not to be offended when smiles weren't returned. After that, I totally forgot about the guy. Until, you know, he was calling me a fag and hitting me."

* * *

Dinner over, Wilson steps out the front door of the restaurant to go get the car while House is using the restroom. Wilson's smiling to himself, remembering the way House grabbed the check.

"Allow me," House had said with a gracious tilt of his head toward the small black folder. Wilson had gestured his acquiescence and watched in amusement as House produced a credit card. It was House's card on Wilson's account, which was paid off in full each month with an automatic withdrawal from Wilson's checking account.

House had grinned at Wilson while handing the folder to the waitress. Wilson had pursed his lips and then broke into a matching grin. House had just executed a gloriously _meaningful_ meaningless gesture, an inside joke between the two of them, and Wilson wanted nothing more than to hold House tight and show him just how much the gesture was appreciated. He had refrained, however, and now the anticipation of getting to act on his impulse once they get home is putting an extra spring in his step.

Jingling his keys quietly, he rounds the corner of the restaurant. Just a few more minutes, and he and House will be home, alone together, free to pursue whatever takes their fancy. Wilson's mind is already playing out different possible lines of fancy, so he's taken by surprise when a hand touches him lightly on the bicep.

"Sir?" the young man asks.

Wilson has to strain to get a look at the man's face - the light had been much better in this area when he'd parked; bulb must've blown - but the concern in the man's voice is evident. "Sir?" he repeats. "My friend's gotten a bit, um, sick to his stomach. You wouldn't happen to have any napkins or paper towels in your car, would you?"

"I've got paper towels and disinfecting wipes," Wilson replies, and pops the trunk on the Volvo with the remote. He's two strides away from the car when a second man steps abruptly in front of him. He tries to pull up short but still ends up bumping into the man's chest.

"Even if I hadn't heard the perverts with my own two ears," the man spits, speaking over Wilson's shoulder, "you could tell just from that. Pansies are all anal-retentive, the lot of 'em."

Stunned, Wilson tries to step back, but the first man is behind him, blocking his path. A third man approaches from the side of the building, weaving a little as he walks.

"What?" is all Wilson can get out before his arms are grabbed and pinned behind his back, his keys stripped from his hand.

"Anal-retentive, get it?" the man in front of him laughs, and punches him in the stomach. After a huge "oof" escapes, there's no more air in his lungs and he has to grapple for breath.

The Volvo's trunk is slammed down, and then Wilson is pushed forward. With his wind gone, he can't seem to catch himself; his knees knock into the bumper, and his face hits the back windshield.

* * *

Reder had heard the story up to this point in prior sessions. Dr. Wilson had added a few details this time, and omitted a few unimportant ones from prior retellings. She waited without comment for him to continue, but he paused.

"So," said Dr. Wilson, "someone probably told you this was a homophobic attack. Right?"

He himself had not labeled the assault that way; Reder was interested to hear what he would say on the subject. "That was my understanding, yes."

"It wasn't. I don't know how important that is, but the whole thing wasn't about homophobia. Only the one guy - Todd was his name - kept spewing that crap. The drunk guy, Larry, seemed to think I was an Arab, for some reason, and the man who'd first approached me, Chuck, the one who ended up doing most of the punching that I can remember, he didn't seem to give a damn who I was. It didn't hurt any less when he hit me, though."

* * *

Wilson gets his hands under him, pushes up, and turns around in a matter of seconds. His left cheek hurts; it'll bruise for sure, but he suspects that might be the least of his problems at this point. Chuck is right there, blocking his escape, and Wilson steadies himself against the back of the Volvo. Larry's close too, at Wilson's left side, and the smell of alcohol is tangy in Wilson's nostrils.

"Where's your towel, towel-head?" Larry asks, with strange intonation and slightly too loud, as if the booze is preventing him from hearing himself. Wilson can hear him just fine but has no clue what he means.

Chuck gives Larry a quick glance but then his attention is back on Wilson. "Shut up, Larry," he says sharply, "and get out of my way."

"You can have my wallet," Wilson offers. Nothing they're saying matches together in his mind, and he thinks it must be a robbery. They probably shouldn't have shut the trunk - he's got Zhang's very expensive golf clubs in there - but then again they have his keys, so they can open it up whenever they want. He tries to step away, to let them have the car, because when he gets back to House, House can just call a cab, but Chuck grabs him by the front of the shirt and pops him one right in the eye before he can blink.

He tries to protect his eye and swing at Chuck at the same time, but he's thrown sideways, hard, right into Larry, who is laughing and laughing. Wilson thinks for a second that both of them are going to go down - Larry's not steady on his feet - but Chuck grabs them and shoves them both into the side of the Volvo.

"Shut _up_ ," Chuck repeats. There's no anger in his voice at all, but he means serious business, and Larry manages to stifle himself to only high, aborted giggles.

"Make yourself useful," Chuck continues, "and hold this guy."

Wilson's mind is still whirling. _Give them what they want,_ is what he's always heard you do in a robbery. _It's only money; it's nothing important._ "I have cash," he says. "Three hundred bucks or so, I think. Just take it, no problem. I can't see your face in this light -"

He's interrupted by Chuck's fist hitting his mouth. His head snaps back and he sags a little, but is held up by Larry, who has an arm around his chest and is pressing him into the Volvo.

"Oil money," Larry says. "Probably got sand fleas in it. That, or bomb residue. Be careful, Chuck."

One hand on Wilson's shoulder and the other one cocked back, Chuck looks at Larry. He doesn't get a chance to tell Larry to shut up again, though, because House picks that minute to yell "Wilson!" from the front of the restaurant.

_Saved_ is Wilson's first thought, and he's relieved for a millisecond until his panicky second thought arrives. _Go away, House!_ he screams mentally (even in his confusion, he knows it's no use to tell House to run) - he'd say it out loud but he's trapped, one of Chuck's beefy hands behind his head and the other clamped over his mouth. Wilson can feel his blood sloshing and smearing over his teeth.

Larry is shaking with suppressed laughter against Wilson's left arm as they hear House call out again, louder, closer this time. "Wilson! I thought you were bringing the car -" House's voice stops when he comes around the corner. Wilson can feel his eyes bulging as he tries to scream through Chuck's hand.

"What the hell is going on here?" House demands. He's moving the wrong direction, toward the car instead of away, and Wilson realizes he could bite Chuck's hand at almost the same moment that Chuck takes it away.

Chuck snorts, the way House always does when someone asks something obvious; it makes Wilson sick to his stomach, which slows him down from yelling, which would've been too late anyway, because Todd's already popped up from behind House and snatched House's cane away.

* * *

It wasn't lost on Reder that Dr. Wilson's voice always tightened and his breathing grew shallow whenever he came to the part of the story where House arrived.

"I'd totally lost track of Todd. He was gone from my mind entirely, again - an invisible man, I suppose. We found out later he'd gone back to the entrance to wait for House. If House hadn't come to find me when he did, Todd would've told him I was hurt and brought him around."

Dr. Wilson looked down at his hands. He was playing with his cuticles, pushing them back, digging his thumbnail into the soft skin to the side of each nail.

"Also found out later that Chuck got mad at Todd for choosing someone that had a physical disability. 'It's not fair to fight cripples,' he said, apparently." He scoffed.

"Up until we heard that, I'd thought of Chuck as the brains of the operation. But that just showed how stupid he really is. If they'd jumped House first, he would've kicked all their asses. Unlike me."

Reder leaned forward. "It's not uncommon for -"

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

* * *

Everything's gone so fast up to this point, but the instant between Todd raising House's cane and bringing it back down again seems to stretch for an hour.

Todd had whipped past House in the process of taking his cane, and is now in front of House. With his support gone, House is stumbling and Wilson can barely see him. The cane goes up - Todd, left-handed, is holding it like a javelin; such a strange grip - then slashes through the air, downward. Larry is back to hyena calls; Chuck is shoving his shoulders, partially blocking Wilson's vision.

Wilson is straining to see past the swelling around his left eye and the men in front of him; he has the thought running though his head that if only he can keep his eyes on House, somehow this will all turn out fine. He's forgotten that his mouth is free and he could speak; he's just watching, trying to hold it all together with his gaze, as the cane slashes.

And suddenly Wilson's heart stops because House is screaming. High-pitched, so loud; it cuts right through Wilson, shocks his heart back to life, into an elevated pulse. He remembers his mouth, but it's too late, and all he can do is keen in an odd low harmony with House.

Then there's a crack, and House is on the ground. Wilson knows - he can't remember seeing it, but he _knows_ \- that the crack was House's head hitting a concrete thingamajigger when he fell. A thingamajigger, a doohickey, a whatsis. The yellow concrete thing that keeps you from overshooting the end of the space when you park your car. That thing. Wilson can't remember what it's called and it's driving him batty, that and the really irritating noise that keeps going on and on and on.

Which he realizes is his own moaning only when Chuck punches him in the mouth again.

From the other side of the world, Todd laughs and kicks House's prone body lightly, experimentally. "He screamed like a girl. Fuckin' fag."

Chuck has taken a step away from Wilson, apparently leaving Larry in charge of keeping him pinned against the car. Wilson's face is on fire - eye and cheek and mouth all swollen and painful.

"Is he going to get up?" Chuck asks.

"Nah," Todd replies. He pulls the cane back and prepares to hit House again. Wilson struggles to get to House, but Larry grabs him in a strong bear hug of a hold, and Wilson goes nowhere.

"Then get the fuck over here and hold this guy," Chuck snaps and punches Wilson in the face again, with his left hand this time, just for variation.

Todd saunters over slowly, swinging the cane jauntily, and Wilson feels nauseated again. Coughing out some of the blood from his nose and mouth, he strains against Larry's hold and begs Chuck, "Let me see him; let me help him."

Todd shakes his head and pokes Wilson in the side with House's cane. "You are one sick fuck. To suck cock is depraved enough, but to want dead cock, that's beyond disgusting."

"He's dead?" Wilson whispers. With the dim light and shadows and swollen eye, he can't see House very well. Just an unmoving lump - might be a pile of laundry that tumbled out of a basket.

Chuck punches Wilson below the diaphragm, folding him in half, and then drops his fists and shoulders, exasperated. "Fuck, Todd, you motherfucker. Help Larry with this guy."

Wilson can't seem to get a breath in, and the light jabs Todd starts landing on his ribs don't help. He's trying to see what Chuck is doing to House, but the spots in his vision are making it difficult. All he sees is a hunched form over a fallen form.

"One less fag pollutin' up the planet," Todd whispers in Wilson's ear. "One less fudgepacker here, one more rottin' in Hell."

"Hell," Larry echoes, slurring, as Todd punches Wilson's right cheek.

Chuck comes back and nudges Todd out of the way. " _That's_ taken care of," Chuck says, and the bottom drops out of Wilson's heart.

* * *

"I'd had some hope that Todd was wrong - he didn't seem smart enough to distinguish between alive and dead - but Chuck had his wits about him. If he said House was dead, then he was."

Wilson stopped, shook his head, and looked over at Reder. "I can't tell you any more."

"This is an important part, Dr. Wilson," she replied. He had never described the end of the attack with any more detail than a cursory outline. "I think you need to tell me."

"I can't." He shook his head again and pressed his fingertips to his eyelids. "Can't. Can't, can't."

"OK," Reder said gently. "That's fine." She would've preferred not to change the subject, but didn't want to get his defenses up any higher. There was something important about the last part of the assault that he hadn't yet told her, something that likely was the source of much of his ongoing distress. If he balked and dug his heels in, it would delay them from exploring and identifying that element.

For now, she decided to move on to a topic that he always found relaxing. "Talk to me about Jack."

His head jerked up, and his eyes bore into hers. "What do you mean?" he snapped. "Why are you asking me about him?"

At his unusual reaction, she carefully kept her face impassive. "You don't want to tell me more about the assault, so I thought we could discuss your son instead."

"Leave Jack alone. He doesn't have any part –" Dr. Wilson gasped in a short, shuddering breath and turned his head away, dropping his chin to his chest. "OK," he said. He rubbed his neck a few times in a hard, deep motion, obviously agitated, and then brought both hands into his lap. "I'll tell you what happened next."

* * *

Larry is to Wilson's left, Todd to Wilson's right. Each of them is holding one of Wilson's arms, and they both step back, tugging his arms away from his body.

Chuck takes the opportunity to get in some body blows. Three shots to the ribs, left, right, left. Then he raises his right fist high and delivers an odd crosscut punch, coming down into Wilson's chest, knuckles digging into the sensitive nerves just below the collarbone. That punch is particularly painful and without conscious thought, Wilson whines.

There's more laughter, this time from Todd. Just as the crosscut punch lands, he lets go of Wilson's arm, and it drops heavily to his side. "Folding like a pussy," Todd chuckles. He's reaching back behind himself. "But being a fag, I guess you wouldn't know what a pussy's like, would you?"

Todd comes up with House's cane; he pumps it in the air once as Chuck lands another left on Wilson's ribs. Todd takes a step to the side – he's diagonal to Wilson now, a few inches farther away than Chuck.

"Unless," Todd says, "you've got a cunt there in your pants, where a real man's balls would be. Let's find out. Chuck, step back."

"Todd," Chuck warns, but he does step back. The cane is high in the air, and then it swings smoothly down and smoothly back up and connects with Wilson's scrotum.

It's the most intense pain Wilson has ever felt, and he collapses forward. Larry still has a strong grip on Wilson's left arm, however, and Wilson's fall has the effect of wrenching his shoulder out of its socket. _That_ is then the sharpest pain Wilson has ever felt, and he screams.

Larry lets go and Wilson's arm flops uselessly as he hits the pavement of the parking lot and curls around himself.

"No weapons, you dumb fuck," Chuck is yelling at Todd. "Fists and feet only for a clean fight."

"But feet are OK?" Larry asks.

"Yeah," Chuck replies, and Larry kicks Wilson in the ribs. It's a sloppy kick, with not much power behind it, but it's enough to tip Wilson over onto his side.

Chuck steps over Wilson's head and shoves Larry back. He then bends down to look into Wilson's face. "Get up," he says.

Wilson says nothing.

"Get up," Chuck repeats, "and make it a real fight, you sorry son of a bitch."

Wilson closes his eyes.

"Wuss," Chuck says, and then a kick lands in the small of Wilson's back. Another kick hits his ribs, which crack loudly, and two land in quick succession on his shins.

"Sandnigger," Larry slurs, just as Todd spits, "Pervert."

Then there's a shout of "Hey" from further away, and everything stops for a moment. Somebody kicks Wilson one last time, in the knee. The kick is hard; ligaments tear and the patella dislocates. That's the pain that finally puts Wilson over the edge, and he passes out.

* * *

When he finished speaking, Dr. Wilson looked up at Reder. "That's it," he said. "That's everything that happened. Well, in the ambulance one of those broken ribs punctured my left lung, but I wasn't awake for that."

"Mm hm," said Reder. "Very thorough. I'm sure the detectives and the district attorney were pleased with the level of detail you were able to provide."

His brown eyes had narrowed at her response, his brow drawn in, in confusion. "Yes. They were. But you're not pleased."

"I'm not displeased; I'm just concerned." She laid her hands lightly on the arms of her chair. He looked away from her, back down at his fingers. She continued, "Law enforcement needs details, needs facts, and you provided them, which is good. But it's not enough for our purposes. For me to help you, you've got to tell me the truth."

"Nothing I said was a lie," Dr. Wilson said defensively, digging into his cuticles again.

Hoping he would look up, Reder contemplated him for a moment. "Of course not," she said gently. "But you didn't tell me everything."

"I told you everything that happened."

"Everything that _happened_ , but nothing that you thought. Nothing that you felt."

His shoulders tightened and he began to bite at his lip as his right hand came up to rub his neck. They were close to something. Reder could feel it rising like a boil. She hated this part, the lancing, but she hated the pus that festered under each patient's skin more.

"I'm not asking out of curiosity," she continued. "I'm not asking for any purpose of my own. I'm asking for the truth because it's hurting you to keep it in."

"It's - I -" Dr. Wilson's fingers closed into a fist in his hair and tugged. "No."

She needed to keep pressing him; it was the right time. "Yes."

"No. You don't understand. It's -" Eyes closed, he drew in a long breath and then blew it out in an explosive puff. "Fine."

He gently clasped his hurt leg and brought his foot down to the floor, sitting up in the process. When he continued, his head was held high and his voice was determined, almost angry.

"You want to know what I thought? I thought House was dead. It was running through my head in an awful infinite loop: _House is dead; House is dead; House is dead._ Some part of my mind was obviously taking in all the details around me, but all I was conscious of was that loop.

"You want to know what I felt? I felt pain. Everything they did hurt so much, and I - I welcomed it. It distracted me from the churning in my head and my heart. Everything inside me had liquefied, and was sloshing around, making me sick. Every blow sparked a new pain that distracted me from that, so I welcomed it.

"And then a new thought occurred to me. If they hurt me enough, if they hit the right places - punctured my lung, ruptured my spleen, caught the carotid artery just right - I could die. And that sounded like the best idea I'd ever heard. No going to bed alone, no waking to an empty bed, no living with his things around me but him forever absent.

"House was gone and I wanted to die." Dr. Wilson's eyes began to redden. "That was what I thought; that was what I felt."

He covered his face with both hands, and Reder could see him struggling against the impulse to cry.

"How does that make you feel?" she asked.

He laughed harshly, which made him cough. When he could talk, he replied, "I didn't think you were an idiot."

"I see sadness, obviously," she said gently. "Any other feelings?"

With his hands covering his face again, she could barely hear his quiet reply: "Ashamed."

She nodded even though he wasn't looking. "That's a common reaction to suicidal thoughts -"

"You don't get it!" When he dropped his hands, his face was red and bloated - distorted by anger, shame, and tears unshed. "You don't get it! That was all I thought about, all I felt. Me and House, House and me - that was it; that was all. That was _all_."

He grabbed his cane from the side of the couch and began to wring his hands around it. "Do you know why we decided to have House be Jack's biological father? We were using a surrogate; it could have been either of us."

"You've never talked about that."

"We picked House because he had the best, healthiest genes. A good, solid, logical reason."

Reder waited. She'd been trying to deduce what the abrupt change in topic meant - clearly something important - but realized she would have to just listen.

"We talked about cover story, too, because we were not out, and not planning to come out. We needed some relatively simple, believable explanation of why we both had a relationship with the child. So, we came up with the idea of House and a one-night stand who didn't want an abortion but didn't want the baby. And Wilson, the ever-faithful friend, the more nurturing one, would help House out by giving his child a home, adopting him or her."

The cane continued to roll between Dr. Wilson's pinching, twisting hands.

"That was what we said, what we agreed. But there was another reason underneath as well, one we never talked about.

"House doesn't connect with a lot of people, and we -" He paused briefly, then corrected the pronoun. "I was concerned that he might not get attached to the baby, to our child. Giving House the genetic link seemed like a failsafe to ensure there'd always be a connection between them." He shook his head and sat back, letting his cane fall still across his lap.

"We never thought once about me needing a failsafe. Of course I'd love the baby; of course I'd bond with our child; of course I'd be a good father." His voice cracked, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Reder leaned forward. "I haven't seen any indication that you're not a good father."

"Then you weren't listening before," he chastised, and his fingers slid down to his chin. "When they were beating me, all I thought about was House being dead and how I wanted to die, too. Then I woke in the hospital, with House there looking at me, and I was so astonished and relieved, I thought I might cry.

"House's first words to me were, 'Jack's still with Cuddy,' and then I did cry." He picked up his cane again, and his eyes grew a little redder.

"You should've seen House's face; he was so alarmed. If I could cry on cue, I'd win every fight." He gave Reder a wavering smile. "Anyway, I managed to stammer out that I'd thought he was dead, and that calmed him. Didn't do a damn thing for me, though, because I was stuck with myself and who I was."

His knuckles were white as he ground his hands into his cane, and his jaw clenched. "I was – am – the kind of person who in that critical moment can't be fucked to think of his own kid. I thought House was dead; I wanted to die; if I'd been better able to twist my body and get into the right position to get kicked, I would've orphaned my son without ever thinking about it.

"And we were worried about House," he scoffed, hanging his head. "So unforgivable."

"Wilson," she said, addressing him by the name his partner always used. "Look at me, please." It took a moment, but he complied.

"Are you abusing your son?"

"What?" Shock and disbelief spread immediately across his face. "No!"

"Screaming at him, or hitting him? Refusing him food? Touching him inappropriately?"

"Hell no! He's only three - how could you ever think something like that?"

Reder noticed his grip on the cane had relaxed, and his eyes and cheeks were beginning to lose their redness.

"Do you think Jack would be better off with another family?"

"He's _our_ son; we love him!" he replied indignantly. "No."

She smiled at him. "I've worked with a lot of families. I've seen many parents - some with good intentions, some not - act in ways that were harmful to their children's development. Everything I've seen, or heard about you, or heard from you leads me to believe that you are a good and effective parent for Jack. Your love and care for him is patently obvious."

"But I could've orphaned him."

"Do you have suicidal thoughts now? Would you ever _deliberately_ leave your son behind?"

"No," he replied firmly. "To both of those."

She looked at the clock and then back at him. "Dr. Wilson, we'll pick this up in the next session. We can discuss as much as you like, as much as you need. But when you go home with your partner and your child today, I want you to consider whether your guilt over a moment of anguish, in extraordinary circumstances not likely to be repeated, is doing anyone in your family any good at all."

In the silence that followed, thundering footsteps could be heard approaching her office. "Jack!" she heard. "What's gotten into you? Slow down before you smash headlong into something."

Dr. Wilson ran a hand quickly over his face, which had returned almost to normal. He nodded, Reder opened the door, and a three-foot whirl of floppy hair and chunky sneakers burst in.

"Pop!" the boy exclaimed as he whipped past her and headed straight for Dr. Wilson. He veered off at the last second and flopped onto the couch instead, grinning.

"Can we go home now?" Jack asked, cuddling into Dr. Wilson's left side.

With a warm smile and a stroke to Jack's head, he replied, "Sure, baby."

Jack rolled his eyes as he rolled off the couch. "I'm not a baby, Pop."

"You're _my_ baby," Dr. Wilson replied, and levered to his feet.

"You're _both_ babies," Dr. House asserted from the doorway. He and Dr. Wilson shared a long gaze, and then Dr. Wilson smiled again as he reached out for Jack's hand.

Reder felt a strong sense of satisfaction. No issues were resolved yet, and it was possible Dr. Wilson would always carry some disappointment in himself for his reaction during the assault. However, a crucial first step for healing had been taken successfully - always something to celebrate.

Nodding goodbye to her, Dr. Wilson shepherded his family to the door. "Let's go home."


End file.
